


Once again

by TeddyTR



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-19
Updated: 2011-03-19
Packaged: 2017-11-28 04:54:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/670493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeddyTR/pseuds/TeddyTR
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a ususal night, John is having his usual dream. And as always, he wakes with the blood's scent still filling his nose. He's waiting for it to disappear. But it doesn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Once again

Once again, John felt the heat and dust creeping into his skin, paralyzing him like poison. His mind fought an agitated battle to make itself believe it wasn’t real. Not because he knew he was dreaming, but because that’s what happened. And there was the blood. A lot of blood. Blood on his jacket, blood on the ground, blood covering his arm and side. Its smell filled his nose, making nausea rising up in his stomach. He tried to shout, but no voice came out. His surroundings became more and more bright. At one point , he had to close his eyes, fear swirling in his guts. This is death. He didn’t want to die. He didn’t come here to die. There was so much more to do, so much more to say. John Watson wasn’t the type that got scared easily, but then he was petrified. He wasn’t the one who prayed either. But he did. Once in his life. God, please let me live. There was so much blood…

John woke with a loud gasp. Of course, a dream again. He waited for the memory to ashen back. The dust and heat disappeared. But something remained wrong. The strong scent of blood stayed. What the… John frowned and looked around. His little glass table lied shattered by the side of the bed, some of the pieces subsided into his arm. Quite a lot blood darkened the sheets. Oh, damn it, not again! He couldn’t remember the last time it was this bad. Naturally, he had hurt himself before, but since he moved in 221B Baker Street even the number of disturbed nights decreased.

He couldn’t wonder more about the problem, because with the blood his nausea stayed too. His stomach grunted painfully, clearly disapproving the metallic smell that filled the room. John barely made it to the bathroom, leaving red stains behind him. This, too, hadn’t happened for a long time.

 _Fuck, I must have wakened Sherlock, if he was sleeping at all._ The thought of the detective seeing him in this sorry state made his interiors flinch again. It took a whole minute for it to dawn on him. Of course. Sherlock left for a case yesterday, telling John it was only a favor for Mycroft and wouldn’t last longer than two days. Mrs. Hudson wasn’t there either; she was paying her monthly visit to her sister. John was alone. For once, he was grateful for that. Although a little voice in his head told him it might be the cause of the yet again raw nightmare. He shook his head. He wasn’t a child who cannot sleep alone. That would be utterly ridiculous, and shameful.

He was sitting on the floor of the bathroom for a while, when he realized the nausea won’t go until he’s cleaned up the blood. He struggled to his feet, deciding he would take care of the mess in his room later. He staggered downstairs. He prepared water and a towel and sat to examine his injury. Most of the cuts were minor, but there were two big pieces of glass standing out from his forearm. Wouldn’t need stitches though. With teeth clenched together, John pulled out the shards of glasses and pushed the towel to the wounds. A little pressure and the bleeding would easen, then he could clean the cuts, bandage his arm, put on a jumper and even Sherlock wouldn’t notice a thing.

John was pleased with his plan and turned his attention to the pressure on his lower arm. He didn’t hear the quiet click of the front door. Hence, he almost jumped out of his skin when there was a voice behind him. And a loud one of that.

„God in heaven, John!” Sherlock flew to his side. „What the hell happened?”

John closed his eyes and let out a groan of irritation as he cursed his luck. So much for his genius plan.

„John?” Sherlock said demanding.

„Welcome back.”

„John!”

„It’s no big deal, only a few cuts. I was clumsy, but I’m fine.”

„ I have finished a case for Mycroft, flew four hours just to find you sitting here in the darkness, with blood all over you. My patience is not enough for your usual stubbornness now,” Sherlock jabbered. When distressed or annoyed (or excited, but that obviously wasn’t the case), he tended to speak three times faster than an average human being.

„What? I’ve just told you that-”

„As I said. And for the record, I think you should look up ’fine’ in the dictionary.”

And here we go. John thought as the staring contest started.

Sherlock used his icy glares quite often, and most of the times, it worked. But not with John. It amused Sherlock that, in a fascinating way, John did so many things others never even dared to try. He teased him, argued with him, flattered him, when he felt like doing it. Also, when he decided something (for example that being fine could include near-death experiences, bombs or bleeding in the middle of the night) there was no logic, no deduction altering his opinion. Not even Sherlock’s perfectly superior, cold stare. Yet, Sherlock kept trying. With John, it became a sign of desperation.

„Fine, let me see.”

„Wha-no, that’s not necess-” John’s sentence ended in a hiss as Sherlock lifted the towel, which was soaked already.

„Unbelievable, he calls himself a doctor and he cuts himself open with some stupid glass,” Sherlock muttered to himself, aware of the fact that the doctor mentioned could hear him perfectly. Before any retorts could have been made, he stood and in one fluid motion, turned to go up the stairs.

„First aid kit is in your wardrobe, isn’t it.”

„Yeah, no, wait!” Too late. With three long steps Sherlock was upstairs. John heard his door open.

„My goodness!” It was almost a hiss. John felt like the most helpless person in the world. Sherlock was back in a second, with the first aid box in his hands and a wild expression on his face.

„So it was a nightmare, but how? I’ve never seen it being this bad-” he paused and stared at John „but considering your reaction, you have. Did it happen often before you moved in?”

„Why do you have to ask? It doesn’t concern you, is it?” John huffed and pulled away as Sherlock moved closer to tend his arm. The detective’s eyes widened with surprise and… hurt?

„You’re suggesting I don’t care. John, you know I… you know, don’t you? Why are you so angry?”

„I…” Finally, John decided to make eye contact again. When he saw the pained look on Sherlock’s face, his features softened. „I’m sorry. I am angry, but not at you. Sorry.”

„It’s okay. May I?”

„Yeah. Thanks.”

As Sherlock cleaned the cuts properly, one by one, John felt exhaustion taking over him. Not from the lack of sleep, but something deeper. Like a weight he only then realized he was carrying.

„At first, it was almost every night,” he started quietly. Sherlock’s hands paused for a second, but then he continued without looking up. John wondered how he could always do the exact thing he needed him to.

„I broke my arm twice. Collected quite a big number of bruises. Sometimes because I hit the wall too hard, sometimes because I fell out of bed. It faded after several months. But the… the throwing up went on. The last time I did it was the night before I met you.” Sherlock couldn’t help flinching. „No wonder I’m always hungry, eh?” John added with a sour smile.

They sat in silence while Sherlock finished the treating. He couldn’t tear his hands from John’s arm, so he kept stroking it as if he wanted to straighten the bandage’s folds.

„I’m sorry,” John mumbled again.

„Stop it, John.” Sherlock’s voice was just as low.

„I’m a weakling. I got shot and I’m having ridiculous dreams. And just when I thought I became better…” He trailed off. Like many other times with John before, Sherlock felt logic failing him. Emotions took over and emotions seemed irritatingly worse in finding proper words than the mind did.

„It’s not ridiculous. None of it is,” he finally choked out. „And I think, despite the science of deduction I’m trying to teach you, you misjudge John Watson terribly.”

John snorted.

„Then what’s the professional’s opinion?”

„I think John Watson is remarkable in a way he’s less dull than other people. I’ve never seen any sign of weakness in him. On the contrary, actually. My only problem is that he’s very, very, very stubborn. It’s idiotic.”

„Oh, thanks doctor, I’ll pass it on to him.”

„Tell him I’m not analyzing for free, I’ll send the bill.”

„You only work for free when insane murderers are involved?”

„But of course!”

Eventually, John smiled. With a low sigh of relief, Sherlock grinned back.

„We should get some rest,” Sherlock said after a pause.

„Yeah, well, I think I’m borrowing your sofa for the night,” John answered indifferently.

„Nonsense. Come.”

„Excuse me?”

„I have a double bed, John. It’s a far more comfortable solution to your problem.”

„But-”

„Fine! I don’t want you to sleep alone tonight, okay?”

John’s mouth fell open.

„What?”

„I’m sorry I left you behind. I understand that this may have triggered the worsening of your dreams. I don’t want you to harm yourself any further.”

„I’m not-”

„John, please.” The magic words he only said to John and apparently the sole thing that worked on him anytime.

„O-okay,” he said sheepishly.

At first, it was a little awkward, but after a short time, John found being so close to another person surprisingly relaxing. Sherlock’s even breathing behind him was like a lullaby. On the verge of sleep, his mind stuck on a thought.

„Sherlock?”

„Hm?”

„I was wondering, do even people like you have nightmares?”

He felt Sherlock squirming.

„Yes,” he whispered after a long pause.

„When you were young?”

„No, I never had bad dreams in my childhood.”

„What? But then… About what?”

No answer came.

„Come on, tell me. I might feel better knowing you have fears too.”

„I started dreaming after the Chinese incident. When they kidnapped you.” John knitted his eyebrows. „Usually, I see you die, or being very close to it. After the swimming pool… I saw hundreds of possibilities how it could have ended. Nowadays I mostly dream about finding you covered in blood. I tried to ignore it, assuming it was an irrational fear. And then, I come home and see it becoming reality…”

„I was wrong, I don’t feel better at all.” After a pause, he added. „I’m sorry.”

„I’ve already told you to stop that. I’m just… this feels nice.” Sherlock snuggled closer.

„Embarrassingly enough, I have to agree.”

„Don’t be such a girl, John.”

„You’re an idiot.”

„So are you.”

„Yeah, maybe that’s why I put up with you.”

„And because you like me, obviously.”

„Oh, shut up.”

„You don’t deny it.”

„Sherlock!”

„Okay, good night.”

„Good night.”

Both of them slept soundly that night. And the following night. And the one after that…


End file.
